


Her So-Called Life

by fleurlb



Category: Homeland, My So-Called Life
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlb/pseuds/fleurlb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the bars in all of Frankfurt, Carrie had to walk into Rayanne's</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her So-Called Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizwontcry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizwontcry/gifts).



> I fell in love with the idea of this crossover, and it haunted me until I had to give in. I tried to posit a legitimate explanation for how Angela became Carrie - please hand wave as much as needed. :)

Carrie follows Quinn into the seedy bar, its entrance nearly anonymous in a back alley in one of Frankfurt's less salubrious neighborhoods. She sinks into a rickety chair at a table that she knows won't please Quinn, but she's beyond the point of giving a fuck. It's been a long day, and all she wants is bratwurst, vodka, and a soft bed, but she's going to have to settle for two out of three.

Quinn makes his way to the bar while Carrie pulls out a compact and checks her appearance, applying a quick dusting of powder and freshening up her mascara. She runs a hand through her candy-red hair, a prereq for the just-completed job, and snaps the compact shut. She's not wild about the hair, and Quinn is back at the table in time to hear her rant.

“Quinn, I'm getting too damn old to be the honey trap,” she says as he slides a glass of clear liquid across the sticky table. “No one over the age of 19 would go for this color.”

“Well, if you'd trust anyone else to do a job, maybe you wouldn't have to go to such extremes.” His voice is level, but she can see his jaw twitching. He's been different lately, touchy and cranky. It's pissing her off, but her irritation seems to be the only thing that cheers him up these days. 

She watches as he takes a pull of his beer and checks out the television, where they've replayed the same goal highlights from a Bundesliga soccer match at least three times. 

Her phone buzzes, and she looks down at a message from her sister about Frannie. She frowns and starts to reply, even though she knows she's making a mistake.

“Guten Abend. Ich habe eine Bratwurst und ein Küchenchef speziellen, die ich muss Ihnen sagen, ist gar nicht so besonderen bekam. Sagen Sie nicht, ich hätte dich nicht gewarnt,” says a weary voice in heavily accented German. It's unusual to see an American in this part of Frankfurt, so Carrie looks up without thinking.

The waitress's eyes widen and her mouth forms a perfect O. She puts the plates down quickly on the table, the bratwurst in front of Quinn, and starts flapping her hands near her mouth, little hummingbirds that distract and flutter. 

Carrie's mind is spinning, but she can't make any connections. She can't even understand what this woman, with her accented German and trendy haircut, is doing in this part of Frankfurt.

“Angela Chase. Shut up! I don't believe it. I didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

Even with the hint, it still takes Carrie a few minutes longer than it should for the tumblers to click into place and her mind to unlock the identity of their mystery waitress.

“Rayanne,” says Carrie slowly, the name sounding strange even though it was one that she must have said thousands of times back when they knew each other.

“Oh. My. God. I cannot _believe_ that it's you. I know you probably hate me, but I'm absolutely not letting you leave here until we catch up. Give me a few minutes to get some cover for a break?”

Carrie has barely managed to half-nod before Rayanne is off, practically skipping through the haphazard spread of tables back to the bar. She can't hear what's being said, but Rayanne is excitedly talking and gesturing her way, and so many memories are flooding back. The haircut might be different, but the mannerisms are all exactly as Carrie remembers, when she puts the effort into trying to remember. 

“Angela Chase?” asks Quinn with a frown as he slides her bratwurst over to her. “Is that an old cover?”

“No,” says Carrie, her smile thin. She's not even sure what to say next. “It's old, but not a cover.”

Rayanne is making her way back, so Quinn drops his voice, his lips barely moving, and Carrie has to lean forward to hear him. “Are you okay? Do you need me to-”

Carrie laughs. “No, Quinn, it's okay, I can handle this. It's nothing. Ancient history. High school.”

Quinn looks skeptical, but Rayanne is at the table, two shot glasses in her hands as she settles into a chair next to Carrie.

“I've got 20 minutes, thanks to the kindness of Gunther. Now please, I want to know everything that's happened in the last 20 years. 20 years. Jesus. That's like a minute a year. Thirty seconds if we both download our lives. And I have to apologize for that thing. That really stupid thing. Angela, I'm so sorry-” 

Carrie shakes her head. “No, really, you don't. It's a million years ago. I don't want to waste our time talking about that.”

Realizing he's surplus to requirements, Quinn picks up his plate as he stands up. “I'll give you two some time to catch up. I'll be right over there, if you need me.”

Rayanne's eyebrows go up, and she stage whispers as he walks away. “He'll be right over there! I better not try any funny stuff. What is he, a boyfriend or a bodyguard?”

“Neither. He's my coworker,” says Carrie, as she struggles for her footing. “What are you doing in Frankfurt?”

“Oldest story in the world,” says Rayanne, blowing out a sigh of exasperation as she rolls her eyes. “Girl meets boy. Girl follows boy to a foreign country. Girl finds out boy is a married son of a bitch. Girl bounces from odd job to odd job, country to country, making a really weird but strangely pleasant life for herself. Although I really need to go to Berlin as soon as possible. Frankfurt is so over.”

Carrie laughs, despite the fact that she knows she should still be angry. But everything with Rayanne and Jordan feels like a fable that happened to someone else, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It's like looking at a copy of a copy of a copy – she can see the main points, but the details are lost.

“I don't know how to tell you this, but Frankfurt's _always_ been over.”

Rayanne waves away Carrie's words and holds up a shot glass. “To Frankfurt and other things that are over, like high school, thank fuck.”

“I'll drink to that.” Carrie clinks her glass, and the shot slides down with a smoothly burning edge and a peaty aftertaste. Some kind of mid-level Scotch, probably from the Highlands.

“So now tell me, tell me everything,” says Rayanne, leaning forward to brush the hair out of Carrie's eyes. “I love that you've kept the color the same, by the way. It's a bold choice, but it works for you.”

“There's not much to tell,” says Carrie, mentally amending that there's not much that she can tell.

“Lie! Where the hell did you go? Your whole family just disappeared in the middle of the school year.”

“I really can't talk about that,” says Carrie, trying to keep the discomfort off her face. She can feel Quinn's eyes on her, and the last thing she needs is for him to think she needs protection.

“I heard witness protection program, which makes sense, especially when your dad's business partner and her boyfriend got arrested for some kind of fraud thing. Tino said there was a mafia hit on your family.”

“Tino? The one who never showed up at anyone's party? I'm not sure I'd be getting my facts from that guy,” scoffed Carrie, even though the deadbeat was alarmingly close to the truth.

“And you know that you're absolutely Google-proof? I search for you at least once a year, and I've never found so much as a whiff of you.” Rayanne's eyes widen in mock-alarm. “Oh my god, are you a spy?”

Carrie swats at her. “Keep your voice down. Yeah, I'm a spy. Now I have to kill you.”

“You know what's hilarious? When there were all those hearings about that terrorist guy who blew up the Pentagon, I was in Prague, and I saw this news clip of one of the hearings and the woman testifying looked alarmingly like you. Of course, I knew it wasn't you because you'd never go for blonde hair and you'd never have such a stick up your ass.”

Carrie hides her relief behind a drink of her vodka and tonic. She sneaks a glance at her watch. Only ten more minutes. And that's only if Quinn doesn't break up their reunion first. She can practically feel the waves of discomfort coming off of him from his position across the room.

“So seriously, tell me everything. Are you married? Any kids? What do you do? I bet you do something important and creative. You were always so good at writing. Are you a writer?”

“I'm not married. I have a kid,” Carrie realizes that she's surprised herself by telling the truth, and the shock is enough to put her on alert. “I'm a marketing consultant helping foreign companies break into US markets.”

Rayanne wrinkles her nose, presumably in disgust at Carrie's sell-out job, but then she jumps into her next question. “Tell me about the kid. Girl, boy? What age? What name? Do you have any pictures? Is that fine bodyguard of yours the father?”

“No, he's not the father. She's a little girl, just coming up on a year old. Her name is Dana.” The lie is natural and intended to keep space between her and Rayanne. Because Carrie is suddenly seized with the irrational fear that if she lets Rayanne in any more, she'll let her in the all the way and years worth of secrets will effortlessly pour from her until she's violated every trust and responsibility that she's ever had.

“How's Ricky? Are you still in touch with him?” asks Carrie, going on the defensive now. She only has a few more minutes to get through, and she's determined not to reveal anything else about herself.

“Yeah, we do email and gchat and Skype sometimes, if I'm lucky. He's the only one of the three of us who has a husband. He lives in San Francisco in an awesome old house with his husband and their twins. He's an art director for some kind of web company. He's disgustingly domesticated and utterly happy.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” Carrie's smile is warm and genuine. If any of them deserved true happiness, it was Ricky.

“You're not going to ask, so I'm just going to tell you quick now before Gunther comes over here and drags me back to the bar. Jordan Catalano and Tino took off to Seattle maybe a few weeks after you disappeared. Tino got killed in a car crash – the big dummy was drinking and driving.”

“And Jordan?” asked Carrie, her voice catching in her throat.

“Ah! See, I knew he still means something to you. And I know I have to apologize. Angela, I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that mistake is the biggest regret of my life.”

“Did you just set me up? Is Tino really dead?” Carrie blinks as the ground seems to shift under her feet. She'd forgotten this part of hanging out with Rayanne, the dizzying rate at which the conversation could change and swirl as fast and dangerous a riptide.

“Yeah, Tino's dead. He was on his way to pick up Jordan, so he survived. I lost touch with him a few months after he moved. He wasn't exactly one for writing letters.”

“No, I guess he wouldn't be.”

Rayanne looks back at the bar, where Gunther is frowning and folding his arms. She has the decency to blush slightly before turning back to Carrie. “I better go now, before my keeper over there has a conniption. It was really good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Carrie surprises herself by standing up and allowing Rayanne to overwhelm her with a hug, a sudden enough move that it brings Quinn straight over to them. 

“He's totally hot for you, I think you should go for it.” Rayanne whispers into her ear before kissing both her cheeks and then floating back up to the bar, where she takes her apron back from Gunther with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

“I'm ready to leave,” says Carrie as she gathers her things and tosses a last wave to Rayanne.

“But I thought you were hungry.”

“I was. But then, I was a lot of things.” She lets the statement hang in the air as she heads for the door, eager to leave the past behind.


End file.
